


happy endings

by Misari



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Eddie and Stan are still dead, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, It doesn't matter what label you choose, M/M, Magic, Multi, Platonically, Sorry Not Sorry, The Losers Club (IT) Love Each Other, The Turtle - Freeform, Their Legacy is Love, What happens after they defeat IT for good, and not so, it's love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 17:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21040067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misari/pseuds/Misari
Summary: What is left beyond the magic?(The Losers and their love.)





	happy endings

**Author's Note:**

> I only have two things to say:  
1) This is my tribute to the Losers (I love them, all of them, so, so much), to Stephen King and Andy Muschietti (and all the people who helped create the book and the movies).  
2) Prepare to cry, my children *insert Pennywise's cackle*

> _Kids, fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: _
> 
> _the magic exits._
> 
> Stephen King to his children – IT

(After, after they left Derry and its ghosts and the images of the seven of them standing proud get stuck in their retinas forever and the presence of a Turtle begins to vanish, it feels a little bit like jumping into the abyss, a little bit like opening the windows to a crystal-clear endless of possibilities: what now, what now, _what now? What is left beyond the magic?_ It’s the same feeling they got when Bev jumped the first time, the second time, without agitation, without fear, into the quarry when they were thirteen and when they were forty. They were seven, back then. They are five, now. _What is left beyond the magic?_ The question, the answer, both threatening, both an ultimatum, both a countdown starting at ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two. What is left beyond the magic? One. Stan’s letters arrive.

_Be proud. Be brave. Stand._

After, it feels like they’re starting to believe again).

**.**

That´s the irony. About life. About death. About why the world is such a fuck up place to be in. About why the world is such a wonderful place to build your dreams on. Stan and Eddie died so young. They have a collective nausea-thing every time they remember the number, every time one of them has a happy birthday with a cake and candles and a funny-hat: forty. Fucking _forty_; the age where you’re supposed to have a fucking mid-life crisis and adopt a stupid Chihuahua or take tango classes or spent money you don’t have doing something very idiotic like trekking the fucking Himalaya or. Or. Stan and Eddie died so young.

Neither of them can do anything about it, can’t do anything to change it. Just move on, live the life, memoir their lives and their deaths and cry when melancholy is too much and laugh when anecdotes are too many.

“Why don’t you write some other ending, Big Bill?” Richie whispers one afternoon, the glasses of lemonade going hot and the sun setting slow and indolent behind the horizon. The radio is playing _Somebody To Love _soft in the background, other version not recorded by Queen, more like a sweet-cloying ballad, through the open windows of the house. They are all together, the five of them, the _rest _of them, forming a circle with two empty spaces; one between Richie and Bev —_Eddie_—, the other between Mike and Ben —_Stan_—. “Some other where Stan didn’t slice his wrist until he cried blood and Eddie wasn’t impaled by a fucking psychotic alien-clown and all of us lived a happy-fucking-ever-after, mm?”.

“Richie” Bev chirps, tired “beep beep”.

“Yeah, yeah, his endings stills sucks, I know”.

They laugh, then. They burst out laughing, a little hysterical, Ben knocking one of the glasses to the soft grass, Mike elbowing Bev hard without meaning it, Richie and Bill almost short of breath and turning red. Bev knows they laugh because is that or _cry their guts out _and all of them are just so worn out. So fucking exhausted. It’s been three years now, since. Since Derry, since IT, since Pennywise. Since. They don´t want to cry, Bev knows, not now, not tomorrow, not past tomorrow, not anymore. Above all she knows they don´t want to cry with _Somebody To Love _reverberating; not when they would sang it back home, 30 years in the past, the seven of them in the clubhouse, giggling and dancing and bumping each other. They live, now, of course, it’s their promise, their bond, their blood-oath. They push life with all their might and run and have fun and work and travel and party and smile and live (that was their gift) but. But there’s always this hole, this space, these absents. This all-consuming silence. It stings. It hurts. It’s howling.

Richie still mourns Eddie and he always will.

“I c-c-could, you now. I c-could try” Bill stammers, apprehensive, cutting the edge of the imminent sadness. He looks everywhere but them.

Mike still feels guilty over Stan and he always will.

“What?” They all say.

Bev, Ben and Bill still are regretful and they always will.

“I c-could write a happy ending. T-try, at least” Suddenly Bill looks at them and in his eyes is fire, a determination so pure is burning them all. _Can anybody find me somebody to. _Right “For them. For—”.

“_Don’t_” Richie cuts, sharp as a knife, sharp as his jokes “Don’t fucking dare say their names”.

The five of them still miss Eddie and Stan so, so, _so much_, their souls still craving them, their souls still bleeding, open wounds shrieking, their souls still calling for them with a desperation as big and as expansive as the mystery of the magic. _Please don’t leave. Please stay with us_, they beg from time to time_. _They miss their little quirks, their big flaws, their huge hearts, the mark they left on the soil, the houses they built in their hearts, the way they would move through life, _through them_, the way Eddie would talk a mile a minute and Stan would give advice like he was forty years old and not thirteen, Eddie’s voice screaming at the top of his lungs to Richie _fuck you you asshole_, Stan rolling his eyes to the universe and keeping quiet and solemn and, Eddie naming all possible germs and infections and diseases in existence and taking care of them, Stan stating facts swiftly and without mercy and keeping reality together. They miss what was not, what Eddie and Stan would have become: old and wrinkle and smelly and nuts and so unbelievably overjoyed. They’re so afraid it’s never going to stop; they’re _so afraid_ it’s going to stop. They still miss them and they always will. (Is it bad? Is it good? Is _this _what’s beyond the magic?).

“You should do it, Bill” Ben speaks, shushing the ghosts.

“Yess” Bev encourages, lifting her hand and high-fiving Ben.

“Be proud. Be true. Be brave. Stand” Mike quotes, his voice trembling a little “Okay, I vote for yes” And he high-fives Ben and Bev too, the claps and clops echoing as the sun dies and other guy who-is-not-Freddy-Mercury sings a high-pitched _loveeeeeee_.

Richie snorts, frankly annoyed “Fucking traitors”.

Bill smirks at him and pats him on the shoulder “C-come on Richie, w-w-wuh-what’s another promise to the long list?”.

They will always miss them. It’s their burden. Their honor. Their fucking privilege.

“Yes, whatever, another promise, sure, why not. Try writing the not-saddest-ending-of-all-times, Bill, and when you got it give me a call” It’s Richie who pats Bill on the shoulder now and winks at him.

“It was your idea in the first place, Rich!” Bev points out, almost cackling.

“That’s the most outrageous lie I’ve heard, Ms. Marsh” He puts one of his palms on his chest, squishing it, and theatricalizes in his best English posh accent. This time when everyone laugh there’s no hint of hysteric or tears or anything sad. The hole and the absents and the spaces and the silence and the howling are there but. _They are together_. They are genuinely guffawing, filling the air with their happy voices and happy sounds and hoping, yearning for them —Eddie, Stan— to hear, to see, to feel deep in their bones —or whatever part of your body you keep when you fucking die— how despite all the sorrow they are together still and helping each other through tough paths, not letting their hands go. 

Because they love them so, so, so much, and always will; and if _that_’s what’s beyond the magic it is okay. It’s more than okay. Is enough.

_Yes_, voices from the radio utter between the fading notes of _somebody find me, find me love, _drawing the attention of the remaining Losers to the house. The world stops spinning on its axis. The world stops. Everything just stops. Nobody speaks for what it feels like ages, fucking centuries, waiting stock-still on their chairs, looking at each other, trying to reach the truth. Is it…? The sun finally dies._ It’s enough_, the voices add, firmer, louder, warmer, without any interference, _it´s enough._

(And they _know_. They know it´s them. Stan. Eddie. The magic).

**.**

_What is left beyond the magic?_

The Losers and their love.

...

...

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is just, let's say, a prologue? a preamble? Preface? It's going to have a chapter two. Relax.  
Also, please, keep in mind english is not my first languague (yes, it's a not-so-subtle-way of saying be kind).  
See you pronto, children.


End file.
